


I'll Never Let You Go

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek is a fluffy Alpha, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash, kind of, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My mom,” Stiles finally says, because Derek still hasn’t said anything. He’s just there, in the way that Scott could never be, either because he didn’t know how or because he didn’t want to be. Derek’s there and is offering himself as someone who’s willing to listen. Stiles doesn’t know why he talks, but he does. He thinks is might be because Derek’s probably the only one who can understand what he’s going through–Derek’s lost everything and Stiles has only lost his mom, but it feels like everything. “She died today. Three years ago,” Stiles whispers, so soft that he barely hears it himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Never Let You Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this Tumblr prompt: Stiles is having a bad day (anniversary of his mums death). so bad that Scott ACTUALLY notices! and goes to Derek for help since he's the alpha and as pack Stiles should respond to his Alpha's calming and soothing influence. Stiles goes ape shit at Derek for trying to stop him hurting because he wants to feel bad because he couldn't protect her and he deserves to be punished for it, lots of alpha cuddles?
> 
> So, there wasn't really cuddling, but yeah. I hope you like this anyway!
> 
> Looked over by the lovely Amanda. Thank you, darling!

Scott may actually just be the worst friend in existence.   
  
It's not that he means to be, not exactly. It's just that between becoming a werewolf and a star lacrosse player and getting a fucking kickass girlfriend, he may have pushed Stiles to the sidelines a little bit–okay, maybe a lot. He really does feel horrible about it, because it's not like he  _ meant _ to, but he's never had a girlfriend before. Nor has he ever been first line, or a werewolf.   
  
He knows, realistically, that Stiles would always be there, even if Scott never deserved him in the first place.   
  
Scott never really deserves Stiles.   
  
Sometimes, Scott thinks he doesn’t really deserve anyone–but that’s melodramatic, even for him, so he pushes that thought aside.   
  
Scott's not sure when it started, but Stiles has been acting odd lately. Between the monstrous workload and the insomnia spells that Stiles gets–but will never admit to having, because he never lets anyone take care of  _him_ ( "Stiles," Scott yelled, exasperated. "You're sick, you  _ need _ to let someone take care of you," Scott argued, because his best friend had been hurling his insides into the toilet for the better half of an hour, and his father was nowhere near home. Scott wasn't a nurse, never had been, but he worked at a vet, and Stiles was starting to look like the animals that were three steps away from getting put down, so Scott was  _ worried _ . Of course, Stiles refused, because he always does, and instead got up to go get his soup himself. Needless to say, the Sheriff wasn't happy when he came home to see Stiles' guts spewed all over the kitchen floor)–Stiles hasn't been himself.   
  
He tries talking to Stiles about it, but he, of course, just brushes it off and insists that he's fine, because he's Stiles and Stiles is  _ always _ fine–even though Scott's 89.5% sure that Stiles is actually  _ never _ fine.   
  
So, Scott's at a loss, and he (probably stupidly) turns to Derek.   
  
Derek's been more accepting since he upgraded to Alpha, of both Scott and Stiles, and basically everything else. It was made clear from the get-go that they're a joint package, but Derek doesn't mind. It's not like Stiles isn't helpful (sometimes Scott thinks he's the most helpful out of all of them) and Derek's been giving off some pretty weird emotions regarding Stiles lately, but Scott's been ignoring them.   
  
Scott ignores everything, really.   
  
Derek's on his porch before Scott even hops off of his bike. "Scott," Derek greets, or grunts. He looks pretty pissy today, but he always looks angry, so Scott ignores it and crosses his arms dramatically.   
  
"We have a problem–" Scott starts.   
  
Derek cuts him off with an eyebrow raise, one that says, "and?"   
  
Scott sighs. "There's something wrong with Stiles."   
  
Derek's gaze immediately darkens to an almost blue-red hue, and it's scary as it is mesmerizing. "What's wrong?"   
  
Scott shrugs, because it's not like he actually _knows_ , he wouldn't be here if he did, obviously. "I don't know. He was just. . .really sad today. Like something was really bothering him. And he wouldn't talk to me. I think he's still upset about the whole Allison thing."   
  
Derek snorts. Scott glares. "Good."   
  
" _ Derek _ ." Scott says. "Stiles is hurting and I don't know what to do about it," and he really doesn't. Scott has never been good at the feelings portion of his and Stiles' relationship. It's kind of been a "we're bros and everything  _ because _ we're both emotionally stilted and don't know how to handle anything other than extreme happiness" so they just don't talk about it.   
  
Unless they're drunk.   
  
Well, unless Stiles is drunk. 

 

Then it just comes all out.   
  
“What do you want  _ me _ to do about it?”   
  
Scott shrugs, flailing his hands around wildly. “I don’t know. Use your calming Alphaness or something. Make him feel better. It’s just weird to see a Stiles that isn’t happy or talking consistently.”   
  
Derek looks at him, with this  _ look _ , one that says Scott is possibly the stupidest human being on the  _ planet _ . “Scott, if you think Stiles is happy, then you really don’t know your best friend.” He says, which hurts, a lot, but he gets in his car anyway.   
  
*   
  
Stiles is having a shit day.    
  
Stiles is having a  _ shittastic _ day, like the shittiest day known to shit, ever, and it’s one of those days that he just wants to end already. These almost never happen, because Stiles  _ likes _ living and going to school–surprisingly–likes lacrosse practice even if he never plays, likes the pack meetings they have after the high school lets out sometimes.    
  
The point is, that Stiles usually likes his life. He’s not completely happy, doesn’t know if he can ever be completely happy anymore, but it makes him feel content. 

 

Contentness is better than blinding hatred, after all.

 

Today, however, is a different story.   
  
He hasn’t had one of these days in a while, those days that make him want to curl up in his bed in fetal position and blast My Chemical Romance or another band that is equally as depressing and self-pitying. Stiles isn’t really a self-pitying kind of guy, has never been, really, even before his mom passed. It’s just one of those things that he’s never really thought about.    
  
He doesn’t self-pity himself because he doesn’t pay enough  _ attention _ to.   
  
Everyone has just made it worse, has made the already weak walls come  _that_ much closer to suffocating him, and usually they make it somewhat better, make him forget about what day it is and see that hey, life actually isn’t so bad. It’s different now–maybe because the one person he  _ needs _ to calm him down actually isn’t here right now, but he chooses not to focus on that; it just makes him more upset.   
  
He’s startled out of his thoughts by a sudden hand on his shoulder, hot and heavy and there’s only one person who can make him feel like he’s floating and sinking at the same time.   
  
“Derek,” Stiles sighs, not looking up from where he’s staring down at his hands by his computer. “What are you doing here?”   
  
“What’s wrong?” Derek murmurs, soft and tender, something that Stiles never really thought the man could be.   
  
It makes Stiles look up at him, and he didn’t realize he was crying until he’s almost positive that Derek reaches up with one of his hands to wipe tears away. He can't be sure, because it's not like he's reliable right now, with his emotions all over the place. He's been known to hallucinate during particularly bad emotional episodes. If it _did_ happen, however, it’s an oddly intimate and sweet gesture coming from Derek, and Stiles is so shocked that he forgets Derek even asked him something.   
  
“Stiles,” Derek whispers. “Stiles, come on, talk to me.”   
  
There’s something about Derek now that makes Stiles want to tell him everything. Everything about his mom and how much her death has actually troubled him, how he could’ve done something to save her–even when he couldn’t have–and then there’s always that sneaking sense of guilt there, the type that makes him wonder “what if” (what if he was in her shoes, what if he had one more moment with her, what if his last words to her were “I love you” rather than “See you after school, ma”).    
  
He’s not the type to dote in the past until he is, and he’s never told anyone this before, not even Scott. He doesn’t know if it’s an Alpha thing, or if it’s a Derek thing, but Stiles almost feels comfortable enough telling him.   
  
Stiles hasn’t felt comfortable enough for that in a long time.    
  
“My–” He chokes on the words, unable to say it. Saying it is like facing the truth, how she’s no longer here. He hopes in vain that if he pretends that she’s still here–sometimes he’ll catch himself setting the table with three plates instead of two–that she’s not gone. Sometimes he’s even hoping to wake up to his mother’s fingers on his forehead, gently coaxing him awake in the way that only mothers can.   
  
It’s not going to happen, of course, because she’s no longer there, because she’s already long dead. She hasn’t been here for years, and with time he thought today would get easier, that maybe it would hurt less. But it doesn’t, it never does. The pain is still there, acute and sharp, pressing against  _ Stiles _ like a recently sharpened knife.   
  
He’s not sure how to deal with this exactly. He’s out a mother and his father’s out a wife, and something about that is just really sad.   
  
“My mom,” Stiles finally says, because Derek still hasn’t said anything. He’s just  _ there _ , in the way that Scott could never be, either because he didn’t know how or because he didn’t want to be. Derek’s there and is offering himself as someone who’s willing to listen. Stiles doesn’t know why he talks, but he does. He thinks is might be because Derek’s probably the only one who can understand what he’s going through–Derek’s lost everything and Stiles has only lost his mom, but it  feels like everything. “She died today. Three years ago,” Stiles whispers, so soft that he barely hears it himself.   
  
Derek hears him though, always hears Stiles, even when Stiles doesn’t want him to. He’s starting to think that’s less of a werewolf thing and more of a Derek thing. Derek, no matter how much he tries to play it off, is just incredibly perceptive, has probably always been.    
  
“How’d she die?” Derek asks.   
  
Pain clenches his test tight, a hard three-five-six that makes it hard to breathe. It’s been three years and he thought that he would be able to talk of it easily by now, that he would be able to tell everyone how she died and why she’s not here anymore, but it’s not. It’s harder than it was before, because with each passing day Stiles realizes that the chances of her coming back aren’t very good.    
  
They’re not very good at all.   
  
“Electrical socket fire,” Stiles breathes, shaky; uneven. Derek’s hands are at his back now, pressing reassuringly into the skin there. It’s just the right amount of pressure that reminds Stiles to  _ breathe _ . “I’m–I’m the one who found her. When I came home from school.” He stammers, body shaking violently. He still remembers her dead eyes, that were once so beautiful and brown like his own, how her vibrat red lips were twisted into a scream like she was about to call for help.    
  
Stiles doesn’t like to think about it, how she was probably sitting there screaming for  _ minutes _ until she either died from the smoke inhalation or the burns, or maybe she just gave up. Stiles still wishes everyday that he was there to save her, that maybe if he had gotten home three minutes earlier he’d still have his mom, battered and broken, and utterly different, but she’d be his and he wouldn’t have to walk around with this wrenching black hole in the middle of his belly.   
  
“I remember her,” Derek says, voice still smooth as velvet. There’s something about his voice that makes Stiles’ body relax, something about it that makes him think that maybe it won’t hurt as bad today, which is ridiculous. The pain, as aforementioned, never gets better. It just gets easier to live with.   
  
Stiles still hasn’t figured that part out yet.   
  
“She owned the bookshop on fourth,” Derek says, and even though it isn’t a question, Stiles nods anyway. “She would always give me discount on books. She saw–” he cuts himself off with a laugh. “I think she saw how the other kids treated me. Like I was someone different. I think I reminded her of you.”   
  
“That was her,” Stiles says, because his mom was the kind of lady that would make thirty-six cookies for a family of two, who would donate all of Stiles’ old clothes and toys to the less fortunate; she would spend hours upon hours cooking Thanksgiving dinner for anyone who needed some good food and a roof over their head for a few hours.    
  
She was the bright light in a sea of black. Or at least, that’s what Stiles believes. Apparently Derek does, too.   
  
“It’s okay,” whispers Derek. “You know, that, right?”   
  
Stiles can’t hold it in anymore, hadn’t even realized what he was holding in until it’s punched out of him and he’s suddenly hitting his fists against Derek’s muscular, kind of self-esteem killing chest, and Derek lets him, either because he knows this is what Stiles needs or because he isn’t feeling particularly murderous today. “I could have  saved  her, Derek! If I would’ve hurried home that day, I could have saved her. Maybe I could have prevented the entire thing. I  _ failed _ Derek. I  _ failed _ . I promised her I would always protect her, and look where that got me.”   
  
Derek looks caught between helpless and righteously annoyed. “Stiles–”   
  
“No–” Stiles spits, venomously. “Don’t  _ even _ , don’t  _ even _ , Derek. You weren’t there. You couldn’t know.”   
  
“You couldn’t have known–”   
  
“I  _ should’ve _ known!” Stiles explodes.   
  
“That’s just  _ it _ though Stiles, you can’t keep stressing over the could haves or the would haves, they’ll  _ eat _ you alive.”   
  
“I didn’t protect her,” Stiles repeats, voice stripped and raw.   
  
Stiles feels like he’s drowning, choking on cement and sinking deeper into the unknown, probably into nothing. It’s hard to think right now, like the only thing he can focus on isn’t really any one solid thing at all. Maybe it’s because he’s reached his breaking point. There’s a part of him that thinks he may have been here all along, that he was just avoiding it like he avoids everything else that begins with ‘mother’ and ends with ‘death’.   
  
He can’t be sure, he’s not even sure he’s  _ rational _ right now.   
  
He eventually stops pounding his fists, too tired to continue on, and the moment he does, Derek’s there, pressing his hands against Stiles’ chest and pushing him back against the bed.   
  
“Whoa,  _ whoa _ there. I’m sort of emotionally compromised right now, so this might not be the smartest idea you’ve ever had,” Stiles says, but it’s weak.   
  
“Stiles,” Derek says, and that’s when he realizes that he’s shaking hard enough to rattle his bed against the wall. “You need to calm down.”   
  
“Calm?” Stiles squeaks, “I  _ am _ calm.”   
  
Derek lets out a sound that isn’t quite a growl but can’t quite be anything else, and steadies Stiles’ shoulders.   
  
“Stiles,” Derek repeats, his voice taking  _ that _ tone again, the one that makes Stiles feel like he’s weightless and a thousand pounds at once. “Calm yourself down, c’mon. Everything’s okay.”   
  
Stiles protests, “No–”   
  
“Don’t,” Derek growls, “Don’t even start with that sentimentalist crap.”   
  
Stiles feels a pang in the general area of his heart. “But–”   
  
“I get it Stiles, okay? I really do. I know what it’s like to carry guilt around with you for years, I know what it’s like to question what has no answers, what  _ can’t _ possibly give you answers. I understand, Stiles. But you  _ need _ to stop. It doesn’t matter what could’ve happened because could’ve  _ didn’t _ happen.”   
  
“That’s the longest I’ve ever heard you speak to before,” Stiles says, instead of focusing on the truth; the pain of knowing Derek was right.   
  
“Stop deflecting, Stiles.”   
  
Stiles’ throat feels tight, so tight and constricting that it’s almost poetically loose in the most painfully ironic way possible.    
  
He doesn't want to stop, doesn’t know  _ how _ , because his dad does it, too–more subtly, of course, but he does, has probably always done it but it started being noticeable after Stiles’ mom’s death–and he’s learned through practice and the curse of children’s tendency to take after their parents–or in this case, parent–that deflection is an acceptable way of dealing with pain.   
  
“I can’t,” Stiles forces out, because he seriously  can’t .   
  
It’s his way of being okay in a world where being okay is relative and never really attainable. Deflecting comes as naturally as breathing does for Stiles.    
  
“No, Stiles,” Derek replies, and he sounds almost sad. “You can.”   
  
Stiles doesn’t say anything for a while, can’t really bring himself to.   
  
“You just have to let someone in enough to teach you how.”   
  
And that’s probably the most scary thing of all, really, letting someone in. Stiles hasn’t done that, in well,  _ ever _ . Scott, who is his best friend, isn’t even someone that Stiles can completely trust–to be fair, he’s not sure if he’s ever really completely trusted anyone that wasn’t his father–and it’s almost like Derek’s asking Stiles to let  _ him _ in. 

 

In the last few months, Derek’s gone from terrifying guy with a badass car to someone that Stiles has really started to like and appreciate. In Stiles' mind, it's not the most unlogical solution out there. In fact, Stiles thinks it might actually be the one that makes the most sense.  
  
“I don’t know how to do that,” Stiles admits, embarrassed and red from something that isn't entirely the emotions running through him now.  
  
Maybe, Stiles thinks, maybe trusting him won’t be so hard.  
  
Derek doesn’t smile, but it’s a close thing. “That’s alright,” Derek murmurs. “I’ll teach you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Left it ambiguous because I'm planning on writing a sequel to this.
> 
> Title is taken from the song 'Safe & Sound' by Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars.


End file.
